Luke Haines - Bad Vibes: Britpop and My Part in Its Downfall

A strange thing happens at the beginning of 1993. I become a popstar. In France. Served up with the cornflakes. This turn of eventstakes everyone, not least of all me, by surprise.

My debut album that is, the first album that I have written,played the lion's share of instruments on, arranged, and co-produced New Wave is released in the UK and France simultaneously on 22February 1993. In Blighty things are going swimmingly, better thanI ever expected, but in France I am a palpable star. So much of astar that I idly toy with the idea of taking French lessons to improvemy useless franglais. As it turns out, I'm just too busy pursuing myglamorous jet-setting lifestyle to do any thing as mundane as improvemy continental linguistic prowess. I spend my honeymoon year ofpop wonderment hurtling back and forth between London andFrance. Perhaps the record company will rent me an apartment here inParis? The 6th arrondissement would be nice.

For the first few months after its release NewWave flies out of Fnac(record) stores the length and breadth of the republic at a rate of10,000 copies a week. I am therefore required, by the laws of recordpromotion, to swim in the Gallic mainstream. Throughout the yearI haughtily work my way through a glut of French television varietyshows, appearing alongside jugglers, clowns, impressionists, ancientchansonniers, gifted pets, strippers and disturbed child stars. It's afucking blast. I even get to do press conferences, where I get to tryout my sarky Dylan in Don't Look Back act on the ladies andgentlemen of the foreign press. For them my success is not such afucking blast. Things are going well.

So, in the halcyon summer of '93, I find myself in Strasbourg,midway through our second headlining tour of France. The venueis sold out. The continental heat only heightens the expectationsof the crowd. We, the Auteurs, played a storming set here just afew months ago and now tonight's lucky ticket holders want moreof the old magic. It won't be hard, I say to myself the band'ssound is supremely confident, and I'm surfing wave upon wave ofthe stuff. Tonight, ladies and gentlemen, Strasbourg is mine.

We're just hitting the penultimate song the as yet unreleased'Lenny Valentino' when I notice the audience surging forward.A dwarf has been hoisted to the front of the crowd. Man, thatmidget is ugly and badly dressed I think to myself, taking inhis mullet, designer stubble and brightly coloured Europeanleisurewear. Drunk too. Within seconds the little man is kickingmy shins and biting my knees. I am now sharing the stage with anunfashionable, drunken and extremely aggressive dwarf.

I look across at the other members of my band to gauge theirfacial expressions and to confirm that this is really happening. Itis: Alice Readman, our bassist and my girlfriend, is mortified. TheCellist has his head bowed. I glance behind me at Barney C.Rockford, our drummer, to see that even though he is in hysterics,he is still ably pounding away at his kit. I wonder what facialexpression I should adopt, but it's difficult to know how to reactwhen one is being viciously attacked by a dwarf in front of manypeople.